


tower, tower

by swapcats



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swapcats/pseuds/swapcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ymir fights dirty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tower, tower

     Ymir fights dirty.

 

     The titans aren't going to understand the rules, let alone follow them, and Ymir's only reminding the other trainees of that. Nobody wants to spar with her: it isn't that she rivals Annie's technique or Mikasa's precision, but everyone feels a little sorer for their defeat when Ymir's towering over them, the cut of her grin blocking out the sun.

 

     Nobody wants to sit next to her when they huddle together for dinner in the mess hall, either. Nobody but Krista—Connie leans close one evening and whispers, “Sorry you're always stuck next to her,” gulping down his food in the hope that it'll cover up anything Ymir might've overheard. It's not until then that Krista realises that the others think Ymir is—just _Ymir_ , this front she puts on, and really, that's all down to her. Krista tries, once or twice, to explain that Ymir doesn't mean anything by being the way she is, but nobody's listening, let alone buying it.

 

     But then again, Ymir doesn't do herself any favours. She sits at the table, dry, cracked knuckles bumping at the edges of the plates around her, glowering at anyone who isn't spineless enough to give up half of their meal. When Sasha steals an extra roll or potato it's almost endearing, but when Ymir does it, it's like watching a cornered wolf strike. It's not just that she's willing to take what isn't hers; she'll take what she doesn't need, too. Krista doesn't doubt that she'd stick a fork into the back of someone's hand, if she was hungry or bored enough.

 

     Krista watches her, after the fights, after the squabbles in the mess hall. Ymir washes the dirt and dried blood away under cold water, staring down at her palms, the backs of her hands—not seeing them, not seeing through them. For a moment, before she realises she isn't alone, Krista almost thinks that Ymir might see the same sorts of things behind her eyelids that she does, memories she has no control over. Krista wants to reach over to her, wants to tell her that she understands without her old name slipping from her lips, but it never lasts long. Ymir turns to her, flashes a grin, sticks out her tongue or wraps an arm around her, and Krista's left doubting whether she saw anything at all.

 

     Maybe Ymir isn't putting up a front, trying to protect herself. Maybe Ymir's just Ymir, abrasively selfish and not worth knowing at all.

 

     The first winter as a trainee is tougher than any Krista's known before. The cold ate away at the barn and the house, prying its way in between the cracks in the wall, but there was always wood to burn, blankets to burrow in, animals to sleep amongst. Here, they get what they're given—a standard issue blanket that's been passed from trainee to trainee throughout the years, perfectly complimenting the board of a bunk they're afforded. Krista spends her nights fighting for comfort, trying to make herself small enough for the blanket to engulf her, dreaming, when she manages to sleep, of snow and ice.

 

     It's the same for everyone. No one makes any mention of it; no one makes any mention of the noises they hear in the night, either, and tears shed in the dark go unspoken of. Krista's wrists ache when she keeps the blanket gripped tight, terrified that _Historia, Historia, Historia_ is going to rattle itself free between her teeth with every shudder. The longer she's awake, the harder it is to will away images of blades dragged along throats, the rush of blood drowned out by words born of a last breath—but then there's movement in the dark, and Krista's gaze clings to the shadow as though it's going to grow bigger and bigger, drowning out the cold, driving out her thoughts.

 

     Her bunk creaks as Ymir sits on the edge. Anyone who hears the noise ignores it; someone tosses onto their side in the dark and Ymir ignores that too.

 

     Ymir finds Krista's wrist in the dark and Krista's heart leaps because her fingers are _warm_. She lets Ymir guide her hand until her own slack fingers bump against ceramic, wrapping around a mug before she can ask Ymir what she's doing. Krista takes hold of it between steadily warming hands, bringing the mug up to breathe it in; it's tea, piping hot, and Krista's sipping on it before she can think to thank Ymir.

 

     “You've been shivering for _days_ ,” Ymir says dryly, not caring who she wakes. “Even after the warm-ups. If you don't get better soon you're going to get yourself killed.”

 

     Krista nods in agreement, heat trickling through her chest, reminding her that she's a thing of flesh, not cold stone. “Where did you get this?” she asks in a whisper, a hint of concern there, but it's not quite a reprimand.

 

     “From the kitchens, obviously,” Ymir says, and Krista tries to make out her face in the dark. A slither of moonlight interrupts the cold's dominion of the room and Ymir's eyes gleam, and Krista doesn't doubt that she's waiting her to object to theft on her behalf, because she's such a _good girl_.

 

     Krista becomes all elbows as she shuffles herself into a proper seated position, making it easier to drink. The tea's stronger than what they're usually given, actually tastes of something beyond boiling water. The steam coils into the air, rushing against her face, bringing colour to it that no one can see. She takes another sip and says, “Why would you steal for me?”

 

     Ymir shrugs, driving out whatever her first instinct was to say. After a moment, she murmurs, “I wonder...” voice finally dropping. She leans in a little closer, and says, “Maybe I don't hate the idea of you being indebted to me.”

 

     Krista isn't buying it, but she's willing to let Ymir believe that she is. She wastes no time finishing off the tea while it's still hot, trying to cling to that fleeting memory of warmth. Ymir stays perched on the edge of the bed until Krista's done, and Krista wonders how she does it without shivering. She knows how worn and thin their nightclothes are, how they wouldn't give off a jot of heat if someone set them on fire; reaching out, Krista splays a hand between Ymir's shoulder blades, and only then does Ymir tense.

 

     “I've finished,” Krista whispers, fingers curling against her nightshirt. “Thank you, Ymir.”

 

     She could say _I knew you were a kind person after all—!_ but Ymir's particularly good at mistaking kindness and sincerity for insult and mockery. Ymir pivots around, takes the mug, one hand on the back of Krista's, fingertips between her knuckles—and then her hand's gone along with the mug, and she's making her way back into the tangle of darkness beyond what Krista's eyes have strained to adjust to. She sneaks back to the kitchens, off to replace the mug before anyone notices it's gone, and Krista waits until she returns before daring to close her eyes.

 

     The warmth isn't going to last forever, but honestly, it's worth being awake just to experience it. Ymir returns ten, fifteen minutes later, abruptly pausing halfway back to her bunk. She stands, trying to make something out in the darkness, and when Krista raises a hand to wave, she sees Ymir's fingers twitch before she carries on, falling onto her bunk with a grunt.

 

*

 

     Ymir's nose won't stop gushing. She's bled through a handful of rags and there's already a dark mark mottling her skin like bruised fruit, and she's _really_ not helping herself in the way she keeps grinning, blood trickling down between her grit teeth. Every so often she'll slam a foot down against the dirt when anyone stares for a moment too long, as if responding to a challenge. “Would you just—” Krista tries, exasperated, trying to make Ymir hold still for half a second; Ymir rewards her by wrapping an arm around her shoulders, blood smeared along the back of her wrist.

 

     “That _bitch_ ,” Ymir says, delighted, wanting the whole squad to hear her. “Trying to give me a nose like hers, huh!”

 

     Annie's already forgotten about the fight. She's moved onto sparring with Eren who really can't afford to be glancing over at Ymir as much as he does, while Ymir slaps her knee and ends up choking on blood when she snorts out a laugh. Serves her right, Krista thinks; there was no way she was ever going to win that fight, even without sticking to the rules.

 

     “ _Ymir,_ ” Krista says sternly, knowing that half of the trainees are staring at her, not Ymir, wondering why she's wasting her time trying to help her. She hates it when Ymir validates every last thing they've assumed about her. “I'm trying to—you've ruined your uniform and you've got blood on me!”

 

     Ymir knows as well as Krista does that there's no ruining uniforms, not during training; there's only spending hours and hours when they should be sleeping scrubbing at the cloth with tepid water and a slither of soap. Some of the adrenaline in Ymir's system is replaced by sense and she calms down by measures, taking the damp cloth Krista's futilely been trying to clean up her face with. She finds a spot where it's still white-ish and scrubs the blood off Krista's fingers, though she can't do much for the edges of her sleeves.

 

     “You shouldn't fight with Annie like that. She's... _Annie_. You should be trying to learn from her, not beat her,” Krista says firmly, taking the cloth back from Ymir and making a mess of her hands all over again. “Why don't you spar with me some time?”

 

     “Nah,” Ymir says dismissively, sniffing. She scrunches up her face, blinking away the coppery taste in the back of her throat and says, “You're miles better than me. Wouldn't stand a chance.”

 

     Krista frowns, pulling away from her in earnest. Ymir being Ymir is one thing, but she can usually rein it in around Krista; she might be obnoxious to treat and almost delirious in the way she deals with losing, but she doesn't have to make fun of the one person willing to help her out. Krista sighs quietly to herself, trying to think nothing of it, but it's easier to excuse Ymir's actions when they're aimed at other people.

 

     “I was being serious,” Krista says. “I know I'm not the best, but I've really bee—”

 

     “Hey!” Ymir says, catching her wrist. “What makes you think _I_ wasn't being serious, huh! Look at me, on my deathbed, nothing but honest and you're _doubting_ me. Look at this lot—you're gonna be in the top ten for sure.”

 

     Eren punctuates Ymir's point with a great _thwump_ , flying over Annie's shoulder and crashing into the ground. Krista pauses, not wanting to believe Ymir, because she _knows_ what people say about her, knows all the other untruths she's spread with a grin, but the way Ymir speaks makes Krista feel that she really might do just that. She's never had this before. Never had anyone who acknowledged her, let alone packed up all their faith and instilled it inside her. Krista tries not to smile, tries not to meet Ymir's eye and fails when her hands betray her; off they go, mopping up the last of the blood from her upper-lip.

 

     Ymir gets back to her feet, stretching out her arms, knocking her knuckles together. Ready to torment her next victim with a wooden knife. “Hey,” she says, slinging an arm around Krista's shoulders, speaking loudly enough for Reiner to overhear. “Leave the window cracked open when you get into the Military Police, okay? I hear you get _real_ beds over there.”

 

     Krista does her best not to laugh, deflecting Ymir with a nudge when Sasha calls her over, ready to spar with anyone but Connie for the twelfth time. Krista jogs over, picks up a training knife, carefully reminding herself of all the mistakes she made yesterday. There are eyes on her back, eyes that aren't just Ymir's, and she does what she can to ignore them; in some ways, she needs to be more like Ymir. She needs to stop caring what people think, needs to stop feeling as though there's something warm and slick wrapped around her throat, gripping tight, tight, whenever someone thinks she might be made up of all the secrets her smiles keep down. It doesn't matter if they think Ymir's taking advantage of her, getting something out of her that she shouldn't rightly pry away; Krista takes plenty, too, but no one would believe her if she said Ymir could smile without being smug.

 

*

 

 

     “Jean says he doesn't know why I'm friends with you,” Krista says lightly, almost as though she doesn't understand why. “Come to think about it, a lot of the others say that...”

 

     Ymir walks ahead in wide strides, an axe swung over each shoulder. They're supposed to be lugging one each but she headed off with Krista's before she could object—it's the trainees' job to collect firewood, but Krista's fairly certain that chores like this are supposed to help with upper-body strength, too. Ymir glances back, _knowing_ it doesn't matter, knowing that Krista's going to keep following her no matter what, but still rises to it.

 

     “You're the cutest girl in the squad,” Ymir says. “Of course you'd have good taste.”

 

     “Ymir—”

 

     “Think about it. Sasha has a brain like a sieve, Mikasa traded her personality for a scarf and Annie has a titan shoved up her—”

 

     “ _Ymir_!”

 

     Krista frowns and just like that, Ymir behaves, falling into step next to her. Gone are the days when Krista would blush at any crudely constructed comment, much to Ymir's chagrin. They cross the clearing quietly after that, the chains of their thoughts snapping like twigs underfoot, and Krista reaches for Ymir's arm, meaning to take the axe from it. Instead, she ends up hooking her fingers around the inside of her elbow, heading for the saplings that the last pair of trainees have already cut down from them.

 

     They work in a silence splintered into sections by the _glock_ of wood being chopped. Moods change quickly, within the squad; one moment they're laughing over the evening's rations and the casket of cheap wine someone's managed to sneak in, and the next they're trying not to look away when what little remains of their predecessors are carried back in carts. They swing their axes, working back to back, and Krista's actions become automatic, leaving her mind to wander.

 

     She's back in the snow. The crisp air burns her lungs, the snow blinds her to all but Ymir's eyes—Ymir's eyes that are going to tear all the truths she's kept buried away from her. It doesn't make sense. _None_ of it makes sense; Ymir shouldn't have ever gone to such lengths for her, shouldn't have stayed in the military when she realised that the person she'd heard them speak about was just _her_. Krista tries not to think about that day, because somehow, the moment it's on her mind, it's on Ymir's, too. Ymir who saw right through her, who convinced her that she'd be throwing something of worth away in sacrificing her own life as though it was nothing; Ymir who took Daz over the side of a cliff and didn't have a scratch to show for it.

 

     It doesn't make sense. Ymir could draw so much more attention to herself, but she never pushes herself too hard in training, never gets into an altercation with any of the others that results in their superiors demanding to know what's happening. She's works hard at being _good enough_ , manages to slip through the system without anyone raising an eyebrow at her. Sometimes, it's like she's not part of the operation at all—Krista wants to know Ymir's secrets as badly as she wants to spill her own.

 

     Krista doesn't realise she's no longer chopping until Ymir's axe sinks into the ground and the rhythmic _thock-thock-thock_ stops.

 

     “I'm not ready,” Krista says, knuckles whitening around the axe. She knows all too well why she's said it, and it isn't because Ymir's pushed her. She hasn't breathed a word of it since they returned, and that was months ago. Krista says it because she's certain Ymir's going to get tired of waiting; her curiosity's going to wear thin, and Krista will be left as she was before—grasping out for affection from those who have spent their whole lives aching to spurn her.

 

     Ymir puts a hand on her shoulder, turning her around.

 

     “What makes you think _I_ am?” Ymir asks, prodding her forehead. “I've got secrets of my own, don't I? Now's not the time.”

 

     Krista stares down at her feet. She doesn't want to go back to spending every day searching for an honourable way of dying, an end that will make her life worthwhile in retrospect, but sometimes she has to claw apart her own thoughts to accept that she might be more valuable as a living, breathing person, not some martyr to reflect on, to learn from.

 

     “What's with this bullshit, anyway?” Ymir asks, scowling. Krista doesn't know how she ever mistook her self-preservation for selfishness. “I'll call you whatever you want, until the time comes.”

 

     For some reason, there's a note of finality in what Ymir says. Krista hopes she's imaging, hopes Ymir simply thinks she's going to be waiting years upon years for the truth—and in spite of it all, she smiles, leaning into Ymir. Ymir tenses as though she doesn't want Krista close, but has her arms wrapped around her shoulders before she can muster up a grunt of protest.

 

     Krista's face fits neatly just beneath Ymir's collarbone, and she realises that she doesn't want anyone to know why they're friends. It's selfish, but she's never asked for anything else in her life, never wanted anything like this before; it's a secret she wants to keep, a side of Ymir she doesn't want anyone else to see. Feeling relief trickle back into her system, Krista eases back, working her way onto tiptoes to kiss the corner of Ymir's mouth.

 

     A faint blush spreads across the bridge of Ymir's nose, and that's something Krista _knows_ that no one else would ever live to tell the tale of. Ymir swoops down to return the gesture with more of a fumble than anyone would expect, fingertips digging into Krista's shoulders, spinning her back to the pile of unchopped firewood. Krista feels Ymir's chin come to rest against the top of her head, feels her voice resonate through her.

 

     “Being cute's not gonna get you out of work.”

 

*

 

     Nothing compares to that first winter. Snow blankets the ground, and it's dark when they're woken for training, dark when they drag themselves and each other back to their bunks, but Krista's adapted. Part of it is that the intensity of _everything's_ increased; she barely has time to think about how tired she is, barely registers the cold under the aching muscles and strap-shaped bruises. She's learnt how to make the most of the single blanket allotted to her, and she can almost trick herself into believing that she's worn a groove into the bunk that she fits neatly into.

 

     But sleep doesn't come easily, whether or not she can shrug off the cold. Krista strains her ears, listening for any movement in the dark—steady breaths come and go out of sync, a bunk creaks as someone turns onto their side, and in the far corner, someone mumbles in their sleep. No one's on their feet. It doesn't matter, not really; everyone does it. Everyone swings their legs over the side of their bunk and hurries across the cold, stone floor, everyone slips out, but no one ever mentions it. In the morning, whatever anyone thinks they saw or heard is forgotten, and it wouldn't do to run straight into someone.

 

     Krista probably isn't the only one waiting for their chance to move. Not wasting any more time, she darts across the room, trying to out-run the cold, barely stopping once she reaches Ymir's bunk. Her knees hit the edge and she looks down at Ymir, Ymir who looks like she could sleep through a titan attack, sprawled out on her back, blanket turned the wrong way and draped across her waist. Krista snatches it up, throwing it down over the both of them as she curls up on the edge of the bunk.

 

     Ymir doesn't wake. She mumbles something in her sleep and shifts, knowing how to accommodate Krista, even in the thick of dreams. Krista nestles against her, one arm around her waist, chin on her shoulder—and she fits, just like always. There's real comfort there, not the mere illusion of having carved a space out; Ymir's warm enough that she forgets she's supposed to be shivering. Krista closes her eyes, focuses on Ymir's breathing, and thinks that she wouldn't mind if sleep kept refusing her.

 

     —Ymir's fingers are in her hair, trailing down the back of her neck, thumb bumping against her ear.

 

     “Ymir?” she whispers, tilting her head up. Her nose nudges Ymir's jawline and she doesn't know when she fell asleep, exactly.

 

     Ymir grunts, wrapping both arms tightly around her. “Sorry if I woke you,” Krista continues in a whisper, and Ymir just looks down at her, cold nose pressing to Krista's cheek.

 

     Krista settles down, tries to sleep again, but it's different, now she's aware that Ymir's awake. Ymir's fingers wander along lazy, deliberate paths, tracing the shape of her spine, smoothing circles across the back of her neck. Krista splays a hand on Ymir's stomach, catching a strip of skin between Ymir's shirt and pants with the heel of her palm. Her hands must still be cold; Ymir tenses, sucking in a breath and letting it out as a short, sharp laugh.

 

     Krista doesn't get a chance to apologise. “I want to call you by your real name,” Ymir whispers, voice too low to have any force behind it. Krista's stomach twists, certain that Ymir's arms are going to slip right through her if she doesn't spill her secrets; Ymir squeezes her a little tighter and Krista relaxes, still a whole, solid thing, warm in her arms.

 

     “I know...” Krista tries, desperate to offer up something other than an explanation or apology, but Ymir cuts her off.

 

     “Get some sleep,” she says, chin propped atop her head.

 

*

 

     The tower's crumbled to the ground. It's been reduced to ruin in a matter of minutes, dust filling the air where the sound of battle once rang. The titans are dead and dissolving, chunks torn from their bodies, and Ymir's fangs have retreated, for now.

 

     Krista— _Historia_ has her arms around her, and the weight of Ymir's relief is the only thing that keeps her from trembling. Burns stain her face like wrinkled, worn leather, and an arm and a leg end where a knee and elbow once were; the smell of burning flesh rises up, up, and Ymir leans into her, all of that savageness gone. “Historia,” she says, eyes stinging, because she's alive, they're _alive_ , “My name is Historia.”

 

     Ymir looks up, and all she sees is her, all she sees is _Historia._ The wreckage around them is as nothing, and whatever consequences are going to come Ymir's way don't frighten her in the least. Ymir smiles and it's the truest thing Historia's ever seen, for all the secrets they've been forced to keep, for all that Ymir's made herself out to be. She's softened with exhaustion, not weakness, and as her eyes close, Historia swears she sees Ymir mouth _I know, I know_.

 

     And for a moment, nothing else matters. The walls could come crashing down like the tower, and Historia wouldn't be aware of anything beyond Ymir in her arms, smiling at her, smiling _because_ of her. There it is, at last: that unconditional acceptance, the end of a world that was tearing a hole straight through her, letting her believe that there'd be more value in her death than any life she led.

 

*

 

     Mikasa's ribs are still broken, yet every morning, she heads out to collect firewood regardless of that. She carries an axe over her shoulder, marches without breaking her stride, and swings as though her bones have always been forged from steel. The others tell her not to, Eren and Armin especially, but Mikasa doesn't listen. She does what she has to, plays her part, just like everyone else.

 

     Historia doesn't think she's any different. Something's twisted in her chest, as though shattered bones have grown back wrong, gnarled and knotted and on the brink of rot. Her ribcage is too tight, too small for the mess of mulch and pulp it's supposed to hold inside—but Mikasa never complains, and neither does she. The others don't tell her not to fetch firewood; the others don't tell her anything, now that she barely listens and never answers.

 

     She spills her secrets as though the knife was at her throat and it's of no consequence whether it tears at her—Historia, Krista. She doesn't know what difference it makes.

 

     But there are dishes to clean, tables to lay. Firewood to collect.

 

     Mikasa never complains, not once, not ever. Historia brings the axe above her head, imagines all the damage she could do, the hurt she could cause, and brings it down quickly, cleanly. _Thock-thock-thock_. As she works, Historia maps out all the fractures that must run rivers across Mikasa's ribs, all the grooves she could sink her nails into and pull and pull until _something_ cracked open, some feeling poured out—

 

     She loosens her grip on the axe, remembering to breathe.

 

     Mikasa's ribs are broken. That's all. That's all it is.

 

     It's nothing that won't heal.


End file.
